


Stretched Too Thin

by astrokath



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath
Summary: “We really shouldn’t be doing this, you know.”“He only told thescholarsto keep off the lawn. Nobody said anything ‘boutus".
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Stretched Too Thin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atreic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atreic/gifts).



The clouds above Jordan College were thin and high, wisps of white that put shame to the off-white snow still clinging to slopes of the north facing tiles. On the ground, the opposing ranks of snowmen and their snowdaemons had merged and collapsed into slush, and the grassy lawn of the old court had been transformed from a rare splash of winter colour to a pitted and muddy mess. Pantalaimon, mouse-formed, picked his way carefully between the clods and icy puddles, tracing a route for Lyra to follow. 

“We really shouldn’t be doing this, you know.”

“He only told the _scholars_ to keep off the lawn. Nobody said anything ‘bout _us._

Strictly speaking, the Master had declared the whole court was off limits until the gardeners had re-seeded, and Pan and Lyra hadn’t had the scholars privilege of walking on the grass even _before_ the Master’s edict. Not that that had ever stopped them in the past. “I don’t suppose we’re making it any worse. But just keep close. Best if we’re not seen.” 

“At this hour?” Lyra sprang from foot to foot, her boots squelching into the wet grass with each landing. One last jump brought her onto the stone flags at the far side of the court. “Everyone’s busy indoors. Even Roger. And we ‘ent gonna be mis-”

“Lyra, down!”

She was already dropping to a crouch, sensing through their bond the sudden spike of alarm in her daemon’s mind. On the far side of the court, a small procession had just emerged from the west door: five men, led by Jordan’s under-porter. The first two might have been scholars: their daemons were a rather flamboyant partridge, and an otter. Then came a labourer carrying a heavy sack. Beside him strode a soldier of some kind, wearing a uniform of bright blue wool. His daemon was a bristling sow boar. The man bringing up the rear wore Magisterium robes peeking out from under his heavy winter coat. 

Pan raced up to her shoulder, stretching up to bring his forepaws and whiskers close to her ear. “Who are they? Do we know them?”

Lyra shook her head, and shuffled backwards onto the flower-bed. Pan could feel her pulse racing beneath his paws. Would they be seen? But no: the under-porter was leading them to one of the stairwells that served the scholars’ quarters, and soon they were all out of sight. 

“They’re scholars from one of the other colleges, ‘ent they?” Lyra whispered. “Doin’ same as us, waiting until everyone’s busy before breaking in. I _bet_ they’re after something important. And the soldier’s there to protect them, because… because it’s some _one_ they’re after, not something! One of our Jordan scholars is secretly a foreign prince, and they’re here to show him, oh, the heads of his most deadly enemies! That’ll be what’s in the sack. And it’s safe for him to go home to his own country now, but he won’t want to, because the Magisterium will want a favour in return, and he’s too honourable to let them have control over his people, so it’ll be best if he stays here. But the scholars-”

“Wouldn’t the sack be leaking, if there were heads in it?”

Lyra sighed. “Yeah, it’s probably just books,” she said, but her daemon knew they’d be playing hidden princes with Roger and Salcilia before the week was out. “C’mon. If it is just books, we don’t have long.”

Pan dropped to the ground, his body lengthening to that of a stoat. “Let me lead, remember? You won’t be able to find the right bit of ivy to start on.” 

Grinning triumphantly, Lyra flung out a hand and pointed. “There, Pan! I trampled the crocuses _specially_ so I could.” 

And then they were both moving, a race to the foot of the wall that soon became a race up it, Pantalaimon moving with ease from stem to stem, and Lyra laughing at the dusty leaves that tickled at her face as she ascended. Neither could understand why they’d never thought of this route to the rooftops before, for the footing was easy and Lyra’s grip secure. Sometimes the ivy came away beneath her fingers like trelliswork, but there was enough of it that at if one extended stem failed, another would take the strain. They reached the height of the first floor rooms with ease. There, the thicker stems started to peter out. Pan led Lyra carefully across the sills of two sets of windows to find an easier ascent, where several branches had twisted together into a perfect looping ladder that led all the way up to the guttering.

It was there where it all went wrong. 

Pan had moved onto the slates, out of Lyra’s way, and started up towards the ridge tiles. He’d won their race fair and square, could feel Lyra close behind as she clambered onto the roof, but this was his victory, the first sight of this new view his reward. 

“Pan!”

He glanced backwards, was already shifting, twisting. Lyra was scrabbling for purchase on the stonework. Further down the roofline, a dozen pigeons had taken flight as the sharp report of the fractured gutter echoed around the court. Instinctively, he matched their form, wings beating into panicked flight. 

“Lyra, I’m coming!”

“Help me, Pan!”

Another crack sounded, and Lyra gasped, slipping out of view in a scraping rustle of girl, of ivy, of ironwork clattering against stone. But the fear in Pan’s breast didn’t stretch into the aching wrongness of too much distance, but rather a swelling of relief, his and Lyra’s both. Two more wingbeats brought her back in sight, one hand clutched tight on a sparse collection of stems, the other struggling to free her rucked up woollen jumper from where it had snagged fast on a loose bracket. The nearest window was a foot or more beneath her dangling feet, and the ground injuriously further by far.

“Lyra, I’m here, I’m here!” Pan flung himself towards her, pigeon to mouse in an eyeblink. Lyra was hurt: a deep graze running halfway from her elbow to her shoulder, but he could also sense that her terror was already giving way to hilarity.

She cracked an awkward smile. "Pan, I thought we were a goner! That was lucky, wasn't it?"

"It certainly was." Pan cautiously crept up to the snagged threads. "I think I can get you free. Do you see another hand hold? Or somewhere to put your feet?"

Lyra shifted beneath him, wedging one foot and then the next firmly into the foliage. "Yes, but I'm not sure what to do afterwards. I thought we'd be able to use the skylight near the tower. I don't think I trust the ivy going down. Not with this arm."

The first strands of wool broke easily under Pan's teeth. "The window, then?"

"Let's try it."

But while Lyra was able to reach the newest ledge without too much difficulty, the sash window itself was firmly latched, and the same was true of the next, without even the thinnest of cracks between rail and architrave that a clever daemon could exploit. "What now?" Pan asked. "We're too high for you to jump."

"We have to get this open." Lyra looked around grimly. "Pan, you have to get inside."

"I don't think I can."

"Not here, but…"

Pan followed her gaze up and along, to where a thin mist of vapour emerged from a flue. "I see it. But Lyra, it's-"

"Far," she finished. "I know. I'll stay as close as I can, just please, Pan, be swift!"

He nestled in close, cheek against cheek. "I will, I promise."

There was a wire mesh across the outlet. Pan became a two-spot ladybird, and stayed in that form as he entered the laundry room, for that was what it was. The glossy insect shape didn't suit him at all, but that almost made it easier to tolerate the growing discomfort of being further and further from Lyra's side.

Being out of sight helped as well: he could imagine she was just around the corner, inches distant rather than yards. He passed the chattering launderers and their daemons unregarded, and darted out the open door, while the ache of separation grew, and grew, and grew. It was a buzzing, trembling agony in the corridor, and his flight faltered to a crawl. But, easing now! He crawled beneath the door, became his ermine form in a crazed scamper to the window, and then it was only a thin screen of wood and glass dividing them. The latch was awkward, but he managed it, and then Lyra was clawing at the lower half of the window, easing it up the runners until there was a gap just large enough for her to worm her way through. She was sobbing, her face damp with tears and snot, but none of that mattered because they were together, as they needed to be, were meant to be, as they always, always would be.

For a few minutes, they soothed each other, each held tight against the other. Then, Lyra ran her sleeve across her face, rubbing it half-way clean. She grinned down at her daemon.

"C'mon, Pan. We need to tell Roger about that sack of heads!"


End file.
